CAGED (#3, of Crows and Thorns)

Chapter 82

Elemental smoke rippled around Florin's tall figure like smoldering coals caught in a gentle breeze. He huffed a laugh. "I swore Tabitha stole more things off me over the years than everyone else who tried their best to rip me off with a sale." A smile steeped in memory slowly spread across his mouth. "I couldn't keep her away. She was always arriving without an invite to chat and to clean, curious over the wares I sold."

"And she continued to visit you? Throughout all these years?"

He nodded with a tight smile. "Tabitha had another life before she met your father. She had one foot in the world of Houses, another foot placed within my own. Your mother was the keeper of many secrets, some of which she's never shared with me. She had a very difficult childhood and faced more heartache..." My body went rigid, wondering what he was going to say, what he was implying, but the Horned God expelled the next words with a mournful sigh. "She was more than a friend to me. She was..." Deep emotion swam in his eyes. He quickly cast the thick fringe of lashes downward to hide himself from me. Shifting his body sideways, he fussed with the bits and pieces scattered over the workbench. His voice was rough and uneven when he confessed quietly, "I miss her." Then his mouth tipped up on one side, and his eyes flared wide before he blinked rapidly as if suddenly astounded by a thought. He stared straight ahead at the wall and spoke under his breath as if speaking to himself. "I even miss the incessant chattering."

Thorny heat tightened my throat. My voice had a raspy quality to it. "My mother's not dead."

"I know." He snorted, gaze slicing to mine. "A car accident would never have killed Tabitha. Not with the bloodlines flowing through her veins. The unnatural healing." Smoke scattered when his long ears twitched.

Florin's enormous ram's horns tipped back as he jutted his chin towards the vials and herbs scattered on the workbench beside him. His voice became sharp and businesslike. "Make yourself useful and give me a hand with this."

Several scents competed for dominance within Florin's office. Logs popped and spat as they burned on the hearth. Underneath the smokey perfume of apple wood was a faint foul note rising from the small cauldron hanging above the crackling fire. Amber flames flickered around the pot's blackened sides as a murky green liquid simmered inside. And from a bucket of hot soapy water that sat on a footstool wafted aromatic lavender in clouds of steam. But what I was most curious about was the acrid metallic scent of fresh blood clinging to the toasty air.

I pushed off the door frame and walked deeper into the office, my boots leaving the running rugs and thumping across the stone floor. First I headed to the huge writing desk and placed the bag of freshly baked croissants and the rolled-up burlap sack on top of the polished desktop. Beads of wax dribbled down fat candles to pool in metal holders. Honeyed light spilled over a ledger that was splayed open on the desk. An inkwell, and a handful of brightly plumed quills of golden pheasant and peafowl, rested in a pewter vase, and sitting next to a wooden bowl of nicknacks with silver coins and tiny bones was a smaller writing set. It was more human-sized with albatross feather quills. A sharp pang of surprise and sorrow twisted my heart as realization sank through me. It was my mother's writing set, I was sure of it. And there was more. On the wall was a black tote bag hooked over a set of Impala horns. Several feather dusters with rainbow-striped fronds poked out of the top of the bag, and on top of a filing cabinet sat a woven basket with blue furry cloths tucked inside. They were exactly the kind of shammy cloth my mother adored for their versatile use. And sitting on the fire mantle was a bowl of the potpourri with wood shavings, spices, and dried petals that she made every so often. A strange homely touch in this otherworldly setting.